f Lazarus, whose firm conviction rests
that he was dead (in fact they buried him) and then restored to life
by a Nazarene physician of his tribe, who afterwards perished
in a tumult. The man Lazarus is witless, he writes, of the relative
value of all things. Vast armaments assembled to besiege his city,
and the passing of a mule with gourds, are all one to him;
while at some trifling fact, he'll gaze, rapt with stupor,
as if it had for him prodigious import. Should his child sicken
unto death, why look for scarce abatement of his cheerfulness,
or suspension of his daily craft; while a word, gesture, or glance
from that same child at play or laid asleep, will start him to
an agony of fear, exasperation, just as like! The law of the life,
it seems, to which he was temporarily admitted, has become to him
the law of this earthly life; his heart and brain move there,
his feet stay here. He appears to be perfectly submissive
to the heavenly will, and awaits patiently for death to restore
his being to equilibrium. He is by no means apathetic,
but loves both old and young, affects the very brutes and birds
and flowers of the field. This man, so restored to life,
regards his restorer as, who but God himself, Creator and Sustainer
of the world, that came and dwelt in flesh on it awhile, taught,
healed the sick, broke bread at his own house, then died!
Here Karshish breaks off and asks pardon for writing of such
trivial matters, when there are so important ones to treat of,
and states that he noticed on the margin of a pool blue-flowering
borage abounding, the Aleppo sort, very nitrous. But he returns again
to the subject, and tries to explain the peculiar interest, and awe,
indeed, the man has inspired him with. Perhaps the journey's end,
and his weariness, he thinks, may have had something to do with it.
He then relates the weird circumstances under which he met him,
and concludes by saying that the repose he will have at Jerusalem
shall make amends for the time his letter wastes, his master's
and his own. Till when, once more thy pardon and farewell!

But in spite of himself, his suppressed interest in the strange case
MUST have full expression, and he gives way to all reserve
and ejaculates in a postscript:--

"The very God! think, Abib; dost thou think?
So, the All-Great, were the All-Loving too--
So, through the thunder comes a human voice
Saying, `O heart I made, a heart beats here!
F